


just the simple stuff

by doorwaytoparadise



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley's Moustache (Good Omens), Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, South Downs that is, its fluff all the way down
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:27:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25113895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doorwaytoparadise/pseuds/doorwaytoparadise
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley spent the 70s apart, so Crowley decides to bring a little of it back in their retired life.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 84
Collections: Stayin' Julive - The Tony Month Collection





	just the simple stuff

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to MovesLikeBucky for the quick beta read  
> i wrote this fic in a feral haze in discord messages and finally got around to posting it for Tony Month

They're finally free, no more heaven and hell hanging over them, and they get to be together like they've always wanted. Fully together in every sense of the word. They retire to the South Downs, to a home they make as a pair, shared space and a shared life. A library, a garden, a kitchen table full of morning sunlight and coffee mug stains and laughter exchanged over the top, knees and calves and ankles bumping underneath. It's an idyllic life, and they can finally just exist as themselves. 

They get lazy mornings and late nights, rainy days in and days out exploring. There's six thousand years of love held back, now allowed to spiral free and it fills every corner of every room. There is love and affection, there is calm and there is comfort. They don't have sides anymore, they don't have expectations or limitations and it's amazing. Both in the grand scheme of things, the vast and incomprehensible nature of their kind, the dueling morality and opposite sides; but also in the mundane. The trivial and cosmetic little things that are, broadly speaking, insignificant, but are the little things that fill a human life with substance and meaning. Aziraphale changes his wardrobe. Crowley changes his hair. Aziraphale paints the walls. Crowley decorates them. They are making a beautiful, shared, frivolous and full life. 

Then there's a day where Crowley gets an idea. A whim, an impulse, a thought. Something fun and new and potentially hilarious, if only to see how Aziraphale reacts. Crowley gets the idea to regrow the mustache he sported in the 70s. 

The 70s were a wild era, colorful and loud and busy and so utterly lonely. Still stabilizing from 1967 and holy water and ‘you go too fast for me’, Aziraphale and Crowley had spent most of that decade apart, to the point that Aziraphale hadn't ever seen the mustache in person, only later pictures. There had been a lot going on in those years in general, but there had been moments that Crowley had very much enjoyed and had desperately wished he could share with Aziraphale. But while he can’t change what's already happened, he's free to act now.

So he waits for Aziraphale to go out one day. He waits until he's alone, until he’s sure Aziraphale is gone, and then, laughing to himself, he grows the mustache. It's a big bushy thing that's definitely out of style, slips into a satin shirt that's just a little too tight, and waits for Aziraphale to get home. The radio obligingly cranks out some old disco music when Aziraphale opens the door, hanging his keys on the little hook just inside. Crowley slides out on sock-clad feet - literally slides across the floor - and throws himself into a dance that’s approximately from the 70s, though he’s hardly being nitpicky. He's horrendous on purpose, hips shaking and limbs all over, but it gets the exact result Crowley wanted, as Aziraphale's face scrunches up and he bursts into laughter. The sound is like bells on a clear day, musical and sweet, and Crowley beams, even as his feet slip and nearly send him to the floor. Aziraphale is laughing and Crowley feels like his heart is going to burst, the love he has for the angel rising like birds in flight.

Aziraphale eventually catches his breath, manages to make his way to Crowley, beaming like the afternoon sun through their windows. He reaches out, hands gentle and soft, and cups Crowley's face. His thumbs brush against the edges of the mustache, eyes tracing the new addition and glittering in delight. 

“Now what's this, then?” 

Crowley grins, wide and open and not at all embarrassed despite being well aware of how silly he looks. 

“You missed out on the 70s angel, this look was all the rage back then. Thought I might bring it back, just for you.” 

“How very thoughtful, dear.” Aziraphale murmurs dryly, and Crowley only grins wider. 

“This is a very sexy look, you know, the epitome of sex appeal. I'm irresistible right now, I'm sure.” 

Aziraphale is clearly trying to smother his laughter, and Crowley feels the fondness curling in his chest, warm and wide. 

“You are certainly that,” Aziraphale mutters, stepping close so they're pressed together. “but not just because of this.” 

He breathes out slowly, right against the mustache, then slowly presses their lips together. Crowley smiles into the kiss, and he can feel Aziraphale smiling too. One of them deepens it, and then it's the wonderfully familiar privilege of getting to kiss Aziraphale until he stops breathing, keep going because he doesn't need to, and not stop until they naturally taper off, because no one is going to stand between them anymore. When they do break apart, Aziraphale tilts his head a little, rubs his cheek against the mustache and giggles. 

“You look ridiculous. I love it.” 

That startles a laugh out of Crowley, and he huffs, faking offense. 

“Ridiculous? Angel, I'm wounded. I grew this just for you.” 

“And I’m very grateful, dearheart.”

Aziraphale kisses the corner of his mouth, his chin, lingers with a kiss pressed just under his nose, and Crowley is momentarily overwhelmed with affection. He tightens his hold on Aziraphale, clutches him close and thinks about how much he had craved this the last time he had sported this facial hair. He had always wondered what Aziraphale would say, if he had seen it up close. He had guessed Aziraphale might hate it, or make fun of him. Or even eye him skeptically when he claimed it was the fashion of the time. 

Here and now, standing in the midst of a world that is theirs, he lets the old wondering go. Aziraphale is tracing a gentle hand up his spine, the other brushing across his lip while trying not to laugh too hard at the mustache. The radio is playing some current cheesy pop song, and in a minute Crowley might try and draw Aziraphale into a dance. He stands there and remembers the first time he had grown this mustache. He had been trying to hide, he thinks, hide and cope and wallow in bittersweet longing. He remembers the melancholy that had followed him through clubs, threaded through the technicolor lights, chased down with alcohol, but now he stands here with a mustache again, miles and years away from that time, stands with Aziraphale; surrounded by love. Crowley grins, catches Aziraphale's hand and laces their fingers together, and thanks _Someone_ he gets to have this.


End file.
